


Hoping to Find a Friend and a Lover

by RileyC



Category: Richard Jury - Martha Grimes
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When every other relationship has been a disaster it might require drastic action, like falling in love with your best friend. Richard and Melrose being who they are, of course, dire events may be required to bring that about...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoping to Find a Friend and a Lover

Right on the verge of dozing off, Richard Jury weighed the pros and cons of getting up off the couch and crossing the short distance to his bedroom. The bed in there offered a larger sleeping area than this sofa but that advantage struck him as miniscule at the moment. Slouching down further, legs stretched out, he let his head fall back against the cushions as his eyes drifted shut.

And that moment, right when he was on the verge of letting go of the day’s tensions, was when the phone rang.

Jury aimed a bad-tempered look at the obnoxious instrument, willing it to silence, willing it to go away. It did neither, of course. Nor did the answering machine exhibit any inclination to kick on and take a message. Breath gusting out in a weary sigh, Jury heaved himself up and reached for the receiver. If it was Racer…

“Jury,” he said, sounding cold and brusque even to himself.

“Did I wake you?”

It was Melrose Plant on the other end, sounding … not quite like himself. Although Jury couldn’t put a finger on precisely what it was that struck him as off. He settled back on the sofa. “I’d have to have gone to sleep in the past forty-eight hours for you to wake me.” He looked at his watch. Nearly midnight. Why was Plant calling him at this time of night? he wondered, feeling that prickle of concern again. “What’s wrong?”

“Well,” he could hear Plant trying to make light of it, not quite succeeding, “it seems I’ve been mugged, actually.”

Jury sat up straight, exhaustion sloughing away in an instant. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“More or less. A little less, actually.” Plant exhaled a shaky breath. “Oh hell, Richard, I don’t know why I called—“

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you’d call. Where are you?”

“Ah, M.I.U. Central Headquarters--”

“Bow Street?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Jury had his shoes back on, shrugged into his coat and grabbed his keys, “stay right there, I’m on my way.”

~*~

Melrose wasn’t sure what impulse had moved him to telephone Richard. Much more sensible to call a cab and go back to Borings, really. Hearing Richard’s soothing voice, though, and now, watching him striding down the corridor toward him, Melrose began to feel that all really would be right with the world once more. Was this how it felt then, when one’s world had been shattered by a terrible crime and the only shard of good fortune you had was when Richard Jury came along to speak with you? Melrose had never experienced Richard from that side of things but his appreciation for the comfort Richard could bestow just by being there instantly increased.

“I’m all right,” he said hastily, seeing those gray eyes taking in details: the black eye, the butterfly bandage stretched across his forehead, another one fixed along a cheekbone. “It looks worse than it is.”

Those eyes didn’t buy that for a second. “Really?”

Melrose shrugged. “I’m trying to put a brave face on things.”

Richard smiled. “Other guy look worse?” he asked, looking at Melrose’s skinned knuckles now.

“Plural, as it happens. And I sincerely hope so.”

“Three, we think,” said DS Ronnie Brooks, the older of the two detectives Melrose had talked to. “How are you, Richard?”

“Breathing,” Richard said, smile welcoming an old friend. “You don’t think this was random?”

Brooks gave Melrose a cautious look over the rims of his glasses, reluctant to speak in front of the civilian, and drew Richard off to reveal official police secrets. 

Pulling his coat around him, shoulders hunched into it, Melrose watched them, struck by the strangeness of the moment. Melrose had grown so accustomed to being involved in Richard’s cases, welcomed into the inner circle even by Brian Macalvie, that this exclusion felt like a deliberate slight. Not the intention, of course, but he didn’t care for the sensation of being on the outside all of a sudden.

Richard was coming back, though, asking, “Ready to go?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. “More than you can imagine.” He started to get up from the hard bench, wincing as assorted parts of him began to protest any movement. Richard was there with an assisting hand to steady him on his feet, and Melrose leaned on him rather heavily for a moment. He nodded then, to reassure himself as much as Richard. “Thank you. I can make it now.”

“Never doubted it for a minute.”

Outside, the air was cold with a soft patter of rain and Melrose turned his face up to it, breathing deep. As he began to feel better, he asked, “So, what – I walked right into the clutches of some notorious criminal gang?”

“Don’t know about notorious, but Ronnie and his partner are working a series of robbery assaults that fit the same pattern.” Richard gave him a thoughtful look as they headed for his car. “He appreciated all the details you provided, by the way. Said it was uncanny for a civilian to keep his head that well.”

“Always glad to help out the constabulary.”

He probably should have objected to Richard opening the car door for him to help him inside. He was even more positive he shouldn’t enjoy Richard fussing over him quite so much. Instead, he let his head fall back, gingerly, on the headrest, eyes closed as he listened to Richard go around to the driver’s side, get it, and start the engine.

“So,” Richard said after they had driven along for some little time, “Ellen Taylor?”

Melrose sighed. “Ellen Taylor. I read she was having a book signing and thought I’d come down to surprise her.” It had appeared an excellent plan back at Ardry End, with the added component of being able to torment Agatha with innuendos of bringing some Bohemian artist back to be lady of the manor. That part had been pure fantasy but he had rather looked forward to seeing Ellen again. His mistake, it seemed, had been expecting her to be as eager to see him.

“You’re not asking any probing questions,” he remarked when they had driven on in silence for a minute or so.

“Reckon you’d tell me anything you wanted me to know.”

Sitting up, Melrose said, “Ellen’s made other arrangements. No reason she shouldn’t, of course.”

“I can think of a few.”

Melrose appreciated that, even if he couldn’t quite endorse it. “I wasn’t drowning my sorrows.” He wanted to be clear on that. “I simply stepped out to a pub where it seems I drew the attention of these ruffians, what with flashing my cash and all that.”

“I have never known you to flash your cash.”

“Well something singled me out. I left the pub, started looking for a cab, and next thing I knew I was set upon by this gang.” He shrugged, winced again. “You know the rest.” He glanced around at their surroundings, squinting a bit to make out the signs (he’d lost his glasses in the fracas) and frowned. “Where are we going?”

“Borings?” Richard glanced at him, reading his face by the street lights. “No?”

Imagining the gossip that would blossom if he showed up at the club in such a state, he shook his head. “And give young Higgins a heart attack?” None of the alternates were more appealing, but maybe, “Brown’s?”

“How about Islington?”

Melrose thought about that, nodded slowly. “I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

Richard smiled. “No questions will be asked, at least.”

“Not even by the fabled Carole-anne? Doesn’t she take issue with you having overnight guests?”

“Not usually when it’s a bloke.”

Melrose couldn’t believe he heard himself asking, “Have a lot of blokes stay the night?” 

A long silence, not exactly uncomfortable, but certainly fraught with … something, stretched out for a few breaths. Then Richard said, with a kind of studied nonchalance, “No, you’d be the first.”

And why that answer pleased him, Melrose did not care to examine too closely just at the moment.

~*~

Walking into the police station to see Melrose sitting there, battered, lost, and forlorn, Jury had experienced several urges. Chief among them had been to get his hands on whoever had done this. An astonishing close second had been to take Melrose in his arms and try to make him feel safe again.

Why hadn’t he? He wouldn’t have hesitated had Melrose been a woman that he loved. It wouldn’t have been that unusual, not to warmly embrace his best friend, offer some comfort. Hold him close, close enough to feel his heartbeat, to breathe in the clean scent of starched shirt, soap, cologne...

Momentarily thunderstruck, Jury fumbled his keys, dropped them, and made a desperate effort to compose himself as he knelt down and scrabbled around for them.

When on earth had this happened? he wondered as he opened the door and ushered Melrose into his flat. He watched him take stock of the main room and found something inexplicably soothing in the way Plant took it all in.

Accustomed as he was to Carole-anne waltzing in at all hours to plomp herself down on the sofa to do her nails, critiquing and rearranging any little item to suit her, Plant’s restrained examination should have made little impression. The considered grace with which Melrose examined a book, though, or the way he picked up an old record album and put it back again, carried a degree of intimacy Jury hadn’t experienced in a long time. To Carole-anne, he often suspected every item she encountered was only a prop to whatever role she was trying on at the time. The way Melrose handled them, it felt … personal, intimate. He could almost believe Melrose was curious about what these items said about Richard Jury. Although what Melrose might glean from any of it was a mystery to Jury.

He wanted to apologize for the cluttered state of the room but the look on Plant’s face, as though he were regarding wonders he’d barely imagined, made Jury hold his tongue.

“All this time,” Melrose said, as he tucked a postcard of Venice back in a corner of the mirror, “and this is the first time I’ve seen where you live.”

Trying on a rueful, self-effacing expression, Jury shrugged and said, “It’s not exactly on the stately homes tour. You want something to eat, drink?” he hurried on, not sure he liked the feeling in the air. It wasn’t tension, exactly, nor even unpleasant. Just … unsettling, exciting, as if anything could happen. As if they stood posed upon the cusp of some tremendous revelation. 

“Actually,” Melrose looked at himself in the mirror, made a face, “if it’s not an imposition, I’d like to borrow your shower.”

Jury smiled. “No imposition. Through there,” he pointed at the door. “There are clean towels and plenty of hot water,” he said, and let out a pent up breath once the bathroom door was closed behind Melrose.

Needing busywork to keep his thoughts from straying in dangerous directions, Jury put on the kettle and looked in his refrigerator. Amazingly, he discovered half a loaf of bread (surprisingly not moldy), milk (also not spoiled), some cheese, and a few eggs. As he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to the grocer’s, it must have been Carole-anne or Mrs. Wasserman behind this stocking of his larder. 

Melrose would want something to wear as well, Jury realized and headed to his bedroom to see what he could possibly loan him. Everything struck him as wrong until, stuffed at the bottom of a dresser drawer, he found the dark blue, silk pajamas Susan Bredon-Hunt had given him. He had never worn them; pajamas had always been superfluous when S B-stroke-H had been around.

He shook them out and laid them on the bed and did his best not to think about Melrose climbing between the sheets to rest his head on one of the pillows. Jury did actually know what Melrose looked like upon first waking in the morning – or rather, upon being rudely rousted from his bed at an ungodly hour, in the frozen dead of winter, as Plant would tell it. He’d never seen him awaken slowly, warm and comfortable in a lover’s arms. He didn’t know what those green eyes looked like then, or if Melrose would bat away a hand as it grazed slowly along his flank. Would he squirm sleepily as barely there kisses skimmed an eyebrow, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth…

Jury thumped his head against the wall, then rubbed at the sore spot. Was he really going to risk fucking up the one good thing in his life? The one entirely trustworthy and true relationship he had ever had?

He really thought he might be.

~*~

Upon consideration, Melrose had opted for a hot, soaking bath over a shower, and was luxuriating quite comfortably, one arm dangling over the side, one knee half raised out of the water.

He’d nearly been tempted to spill out some of the bubble-bath he’d found shoved to the back of a shelf. That it promised to leave one smelling mango fresh had been a strong deterrent – although upon reflection that would have been a tremendous improvement on the reek left behind from the alley.

What, he wondered, as he sank further into the hot water, was Richard Jury doing with mango-scented bubble-bath anyway? It might have been a gift from Carole-anne, of course, or, far more likely, one of the many conquests who had passed through this flat. Although for the life of him, Melrose could not picture Jenny Kennington sharing a bath, bubbly or otherwise, even with Richard. 

Susan Bredon-Hunt, perhaps? Dr. Phyllis Nancy? The sales girl at Boots who’d sold him the bottle of Fcuk shampoo and probably been ready to drop her knickers on the spot if Richard had dazzled her with one more ravishing smile?

Inexplicably cross at the idea, Melrose submerged himself completely, popping back up after a moment, soapy water sluicing off him.

It would be comforting, he thought, if he could simply think of Richard Jury as some reckless lothario, leaving a string of broken hearts from Land’s End to Hadrian’s Wall. The problem with that scenario was that it was Richard left hurting every time. Richard and his obsession with love at first sight; his conviction that this time he wouldn’t be taken in by some damsel-in-distress he couldn’t save.

Richard was like that old country western song, always looking for love in all the wrong places. Not that he had a lot of room to criticize, Melrose admitted, as he dwelt on the disaster with Ellen. Still, he had never seriously contemplated a happily ever after future with her, or any of the women who had caught his attention for a flicker in time. 

That list he’d made, for instance, of the women in his life, and how he had weighed their _pros_ and _cons_ —-with the _cons_ somehow always outnumbering the _pros_. None of them had leaped out at him as someone he could picture sharing his life with; he would ever be completely comfortable with any of them, not even Vivian. Name the scenario, though, and he could easily envision Richard as part of it. 

When a cold rain lashed the drawing room windows at Ardry End, for example, and Melrose toyed with the idea of a tropical holiday to the Seychelles – so temptingly, romantically described in the magazine he’d been looking at – the companion he’d pictured sharing it with, lounging on a beach chair beside him, had been … Richard.

The picture had appealed to him so much he’d nearly reached for the phone to call Richard and issue the invitation right then. And not just for companionship. The sensation that had been stirring in him of late was something else entirely. 

Testing himself (indulging himself), Melrose sank back in the tub and let his eyes drift shut and his imagination roam…

_A soft knock sounded at the door and Melrose looked over to watch Richard walk in, devastatingly attractive with his sleeves rolled up, white shirt open at the neck, chiseled jaw stubbled with a day’s growth of beard. Those gray eyes, so sharp when they spotted a tell-tale clue, were soft and warm as they traveled over him, a hint of a smile curving his lips. Without speaking a word, Richard knelt beside the tub and picked up the soap. He worked up a creamy lather that he slowly – excruciatingly slow – worked over Melrose’s back and shoulders. The suds slid along his skin and Richard’s hands glided in their wake…_

He sat up, a blush burning his face, even as he chided himself for not being able to call up some more tantalizing image. Not banal, though; nothing commonplace in that brief flight of fancy, however domestic its elements. Taking Richard Jury for a lover could surely never dissolve into that, he thought, and startled himself with the thought.

He stood up and snatched up a towel, rapidly drying himself off as he wondered if this was what it felt like to go mad.

The fellow who looked back at him from the mirror – pale, rather battered at the moment, a damp towel riding low on his hips – didn’t look like he had much of a clue. 

Practicalities, he firmly told himself. What the hell was he going to put on?

The clothes he’d been wearing were now an untidy pile on the floor, and he truly did not fancy putting them back on again. At the same time, there was no way in hell he was going to step out of here in nothing but a towel. He reached for the bathrobe hanging on the door, hesitated, followed through, and was soon wrapped warmly in Richard’s robe. 

He just wouldn’t think about that. Wouldn’t dwell on this robe being Richard’s, on the way it was cut for a broader set of shoulders and would fit Richard perfectly. He wouldn’t think on how the soft, cozy fabric would slide caressingly against Richard’s naked skin…

Melrose sighed, thumped his head against the door. 

On the other hand, he considered, what if it wasn’t the maddest thing he’d ever done, but the sanest?

~*~

With the kettle boiling, Jury was rummaging through a drawer for spoons that matched when he heard Plant come out of the bathroom. He turned to look at him – and felt the breath catch in his throat.

It was only Plant, he told himself. Only Melrose, looking damp and freshly scrubbed, wrapped up in Jury’s moth-eaten old bathrobe. It fit him a bit more loosely and fell to mid-calf; the dark green made his skin look creamy and brought out the brilliant emerald of his eyes. He was irresistibly reminded of Angie, her freckles that he’d counted one morning in bed, and how the sexiest thing he’d seen in his twenty-one years, then, had been her wearing his white dress shirt and nothing else. Who would have guessed a similar image could still get to him twenty years later? He’d never observed that Melrose freckled, though.

“Richard?”

“Mmm?” Jury stared at him, blinked, and did his best to pull himself together before his friend twigged to anything. “Feeling better?” 

“Considerably.” Melrose jammed his hands in the robe’s pockets and looked him up and down. “Thank you.”

Jury nodded. “You look better,” he said. The bruises and lacerations were still there, but he looked vastly more at ease.

“You look,” Melrose tilted his head slightly, as if appraising Jury, “comfortable.”

Jury had no idea how to respond to that. He was in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows, tie happily discarded and his collar undone. Why this seemed to be a source of fascination for Melrose he could not fathom. “What?”

Melrose shook his head. “I’ll tell you sometime. Maybe soon.”

The kettle whistled just then and provided a welcome distraction and it was with some relief that he turned his attention to the practicalities of making tea. This comfort zone evaporated almost immediately as Melrose came over to help out.

“Ah, good old Twinings,” Melrose said as he took down the box. “One hundred and sixty bags?” He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

Jury shrugged. “I expect Mrs. Wasserman thinks it’s best to be prepared for emergencies.” Or she and Carole-anne didn’t trust him to keep himself fed.

“Very practical, actually. For all I know, Ruthven buys the stuff in bulk along with Agatha’s fairy cakes.”

Jury smiled and reached for a pair of mismatched mugs, thought better of it, and brought down a practically pristine set of matching teacups and saucers. Done in an Art Deco style, they were of fine white China trimmed in delicate gold. Part of a set that included a teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl, they were another relic from his S B-stroke-H time. Carole-anne had often remarked he could get a pretty penny for the set down at the pawnbrokers. She was probably right about that but just at the moment he was glad to have kept them around. “I know you don’t like to drink tea out of a mug,” he said as he placed them on the counter.

“Drinking tea is a civilized activity to be savored as one’s leisure,” Melrose said as he tore open two packets of Twinings and placed the bags in the cups. “To drink it out a mug,” he went on, his tone lofty, “implies action, that you have other things to be on about and can’t stop to truly enjoy your tea. It’s one step away from being some instant tea powder in a jar hooligan.”

Biting back a smile, Jury said, “You should write an essay about it. It could be printed as a companion piece to Orwell’s.”

Melrose gave him a severe look. “Go ahead and laugh it up, you… _mug_ user.”

Jury couldn’t suppress his smile this time.

The domesticity of the moment was not lost on him. This was a scene intimately, painfully, familiar to him. This was something he’s tried on so many times, the fit never quite right no matter how many justifications he tried to dredge up for why that should be. _This_ one – this fit amazingly right, he thought as Melrose nudged him aside to rummage in a cupboard.

“Ah,” he said as Melrose found a box of biscuits tucked away, “those might be stale.” At least he had no recent memory of buying any.

Melrose opened the box, took one out and risked a bite. “Tastes all right to me,” he said and offered the box to Jury.

He took one and tasted only a fresh blend of Dutch chocolate and mint. “Mrs. Wasserman strikes again.”

“Not Carole-anne?”

Jury shook his head. “She’s more the fry-up type, not sweets.”

“You’d starve without them,” Melrose said as he placed a handful of the biscuits on a plate he’d found.

Jury smiled, unable to deny it. “And Martha.”

Melrose nodded. “And Martha.” He’d found a tray as well and began to load it up to cart. “Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you visit Ardry End, to gorge yourself on her cooking.”

“Not the only one.”

Melrose gave him a brief glance before he became intent upon examining a carton of sugar cubes. “No, it’s Agatha, isn’t it? A weekend exposed to her wit and wisdom and you’re fortified to return to your Chief Superintendent Racer.”

While there was something to that it would have been considerably far down on any list Jury might make of Ardry End’s attractions. Melrose had to know that. Would it be so shocking to voice it, admit it? That he was uncertain on that point made him hold his tongue—for the moment.

“Speaking of Orwell,” Melrose spoke into a silence that had begun to verge upon awkward, “how do you hold with his position on milk?”

“I stand in agreement.”

Melrose nodded with satisfaction and measured a precise amount into the milk jug. “Very wise. I do, however, part ways with him upon the matter of sugar…”

~*~

Melrose experienced a moment of dissociation, as if he watched from afar as his doppelganger nattered on about Orwell’s rules for tea. Nothing about that made sense. He and Richard didn’t have awkward silences where either of them felt compelled to chatter away like deranged parakeets. He had often thought, in fact, that they were that most prized rarity of companions: two people who could be quiet together, who enjoyed the freedom and comfort of not having to make meaningless conversation.

He held the atmosphere responsible. That initial buzz of excitement had lost its edge by now and begun to morph into something not yet identifiable. They were like two actors reprising familiar roles but caught unprepared by certain last minute changes in the text.

He mulled that analogy, not entirely pleased with it, as he reached for the kettle. Bags were steeped for exactly three minutes, and there was a brief dispute—won by Melrose—over who would carry the tray over to the sitting room. Once there, they settled down on the sofa, not quite close enough to touch although it certainly would take little effort to accomplish that, if one wanted to.

Melrose crunched a biscuit as he thought about being close to Richard, and how it was equal parts stirring and alarming. Rather like jumping out of an airplane, he supposed. He was only startled out of this contemplation when Richard asked him something. “I’m sorry,” Melrose shifted around to face him “did you say something about pajamas?”

“I thought you might find them more comfortable.”

He seriously doubted that could be possible. “I never really took you for the pajamas type.” In fact, in all their time together he could recall no instance of having witnessed Richard in any state of dishabille. He always arrived at the breakfast table dressed for the day. Second nature when you were with the police, Melrose supposed, and liable to be called to duty at any moment.

“I’m not, as rule.” Richard shrugged as if to distance himself from the matter of sleepwear. “They were a gift.”

Hmm; Melrose wasn’t at all sure what he thought of Richard’s women showering him with gifts. This particular gift struck him as nonsensical in any case. If you were on such intimate terms with him as to be sharing a bed, why on earth would you ever want him to wear pajamas? “Still in the wrapper?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, thank you, but I’m quite comfortable.”

Richard nodded and sipped his tea and studiously avoided letting his gaze rest on Melrose for too long. This presented Melrose with a fresh line of inquiry that revolved around one question: was _Richard_ uncomfortable with him lounging about in nothing this bathrobe, and if so, what did that mean?

That Richard had observed a scene like this play out many times could be taken as read. Even Jenny Kennington might have slipped out of bed and thrown on Richard’s shirt in her modesty. So no, there could be nothing unfamiliar about this, no reason that Richard’s breath should come a bit faster, or for him to dart quick looks his way when he thought Melrose wouldn’t notice. No reason except that he had never shared a moment like this with Melrose and it was effecting him in unexpected ways.

Or was Melrose projecting? 

God, how did people _do_ this? Was it easier if you did it more often? But no, that couldn’t be it. Richard fell in love every second Thursday and hadn’t grown any wiser that Melrose could see.

Although what Melrose had long suspected was that Richard was in love with the idea of being in love, and subconsciously looked for it in places he knew were doomed. Then he could tell himself that he’d given it his best shot and was alone because he was cursed in love and he was fated to be a melancholic romantic.

Melrose wasn’t particularly melancholic, or even all that romantic. The grand gestures so popular in mass media always struck him as inherently desperate. If you had to make a big show of it, how much was really there in the first place? Melrose didn’t even really mind being alone. It was just that being alone with Richard suited him even more.

“Richard--”

“I don’t gorge.”

Melrose stared at him, no clue as to what they were talking about now. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t visit Ardry End just because of the food,” Richard said as if this was an important fact Melrose needed to know. “Martha could serve nothing but haggis and toad in a hole and I would still be there.”

Not at all certain how they had arrived back at this, Melrose searched through his repertoire for a witty reply and came up with, “Could have fooled me.” It mystified him that he wasn’t renowned as the Noel Coward of his age.

Impatient now, Richard set his cup and saucer on the table and scooted around so they were facing each other and his arm stretched along the back of the sofa. His fingers didn’t quite brush Melrose’s shoulder but it was a close thing. “I come for the company.”

“Yes, we had it settled that my aunt possesses strangely restorative qualities re: your interactions with your chief superintendent.” What _was_ he going on about?

“We hadn’t settled anything, you idiot.”

Well, really, if they were going to resort to name calling… Melrose tugged the robe more snugly about him, riffled through their most recent conversation, and said, “And I assure you, if Martha did serve toad in the hole, it would be the best toad in the hole you ever tasted. It’s commonly thought, incidentally,” he continued, aware he was prattling but unable to stop, “that the dish acquired its name because the sausages bear a resemblance to frogs as they poke up through the batter. A competing theory has to with a golf tournament in Alnmouth, where a toad pushed its head up from the eighteenth hole and dislodged the star player’s ball. An actual reference by name doesn’t occur until about 1787--” How did he even know this much about toad in the hole?

“Melrose.”

“—so it is understandable the issue of origin would be murky. As for spotted dick--”

_“Melrose.”_

Richard never called him Melrose. “Mmm?” He found a loose thread on the bathrobe and began to fiddle with it.

Richard caught hold of his hand and didn’t appear inclined to let go. “I don’t want to talk about toad in a hole.”

“It’s not as if I wander around like the Ancient Mariner and accost complete strangers, demanding they listen to my allegorical tale of toad in the hole.” Really, anyone would think it wasn’t Richard who brought it up in the first place. He tried to extricate his hand but the more he tugged, the more he became aware of this friction as their fingers slipped and dragged against each other. It was the oddest sensation, scorching hot and yet he wanted to shiver.

“Melrose.” There it was again, Richard saying his name like that, like he really did say it all the time, like he whispered it against Melrose’s skin in the darkest, deepest part of the night. It sounded rough and secret and like something heard in a dream. He had never heard his name sound like that—and this didn’t feel like a dream.

“You never call me that.”

“Maybe it’s time I did.” Richard touched him then, grazed the back of his hand along Melrose’s cheek, fingers gliding into his hair. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

Melrose looked back at him and found that he was remarkably sure of himself in this moment, nerves steady and everything. If this was what it felt like to skydive, he was ready to jump. “Find out.”

For a split second he thought Richard might balk; that Richard had braced himself to be turned down and had to make some rapid adjustments to the current situation. Called upon to lend his special assistance once more, Melrose shifted into man of action mode. He grabbed a handful of Richard’s shirt and pulled him in close, and hoped it was heartfelt relief and not alarm and horror that he glimpsed in Richard’s eyes the instant before their lips met.

What followed would undoubtedly be noted down as one of the worst first kisses in recorded history. It was clumsy and embarrassing and Melrose thought he might have cracked a tooth, and Richard was likely only moments away from casting him out into the cold, dark night.

Before he could progress too far down this path of self-recrimination, however, other details began to catch his attention. Richard had not recoiled from his touch, for instance. In fact, Richard appeared inclined to keep him there. And, actually, Melrose thought there might be some…yes, one could only call it nuzzling that was now in progress as Richard’s fingers slid through his hair and kneaded the nape of his neck.

Another moment and Richard drew back. There was definitely a sparkle of amusement in his eyes but Melrose had no sense it was at his expense. He was certain of it, in fact, as Richard cupped a hand along his face, thumb tracing a light caress across his lips. “I think,” Richard murmured, voice husky and sexy and doing very strange things to Melrose’s overall equilibrium, “that we can do better than that.”

It would have been the thing for Melrose to attempt to compose himself at this point; draw his tattered dignity about him and perhaps compose a list of why this shouldn’t happen. How could it be anything but a—Melrose caught his breath and let his head fall back as Richard nibbled the length of his throat—but a really terrible, wonderful mistake? He sighed and touched Richard’s hair. He did not want to throw a bucket of cold water on the situation but… “Are you sure about this?”

Another brush of lips against his ear, a flick of tongue that he felt all the way to the tips of his toes, and then Richard echoed his sigh and drew back to look at him. “Aren’t you?” Melrose flattered himself that he was the only one who would notice the guarded note in Richard’s voice.

Anxious that Richard not be left in any doubt, Melrose dragged him down into another kiss. If finesse continued to be elusive, he trusted his intentions came through clear enough. “I think I’ve wanted this for a long time, Richard.” Bolder by the moment, he drew an index finger over Richard’s bottom lip. Before Richard could lick or suck the pad and derail any good intentions, Melrose slid both hands around Richard’s neck, enjoying a fuller tactile experience. “This doesn’t have to change anything. Wait.” He dug his fingers in as he watched a protest form in those gray eyes. “I still want to be reeled on harebrained schemes to aid your investigations.”

“Harebrained?”

“Pretty harebrained sometimes.” Melrose kneaded his nape some more and felt a flare of triumph when Richard’s eyes drifted shut for a moment, a sound of deep satisfaction rumbling in his throat. “It’s just that we could…” He faltered then as his self-possession deserted him. 

Richard prodded him, eyes searching his for secrets and revelations. “We could…?”

Melrose could do this. “We could have this too. If we wanted—if _you_ wanted—if--” Thankfully Richard shut him up with a kiss at that point.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Richard said as he drew back.

“Well…good.” Melrose nodded to himself. “Good to have that settled then.” And perhaps there was a trace of romance in his soul after all because somehow he had envisioned this being a bit more… _more_. “Well, then.” 

“You’re wrong, though.”

“About…?”

“This.” Richard kissed the side of his neck and lingered there like a vampire who couldn’t make up his mind. “This changes everything,” he murmured as he finally moved on to brush his lips along the corner of Melrose’s mouth.

“Might be complicated.” Melrose felt he should at least attempt a token protest on pragmatic grounds.

Richard shook his head. His knuckles grazed the bandage stretched over Melrose’ cheekbone, he touched his lips to Melrose’s temple, just by the black eye. “What’s easier than falling in love with my best mate?” he murmured and kissed his forehead. 

Melrose went still, barely even breathing. “Say that again.”

As the silence stretched out Melrose wanted to kick himself. Just before it would have become unbearable, Richard spoke up, voice quiet. “Too much?”

“Just enough.” Melrose dug his fingers into Richard’s hair and tugged until his forehead was pressed to Richard’s. “That’s just right,” he said and couldn’t believe how perfect it felt to simply rest like that, Richard’s breath warm against his cheek, like everything was as it should be. When he kissed the corner of Richard’s mouth it felt like something he’d done a thousand times before. “I should have gotten mugged years ago.”

Richard held him tighter, easing up when Melrose let out an _oof!_ “Don’t joke about that. When I think of what might have happened, when I walked into the station and saw you there, I…” He faltered, shook his head, and stroked his hand back through Melrose’s hair. 

Melrose didn’t have to try and imagine how he’d felt. He still had nightmares where he wasn’t in time and Richard died alone there on the pier. “Let’s make a pact.”

“A pact?”

“Umm hmm. You know, like…” He cast about for inspiration. “If you live to be a hundred I’ll live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.”

Richard looked like it was all he could do not to laugh. “Winnie the Pooh?”

“Wisest philosopher of the twentieth century. His views on mastering the art of doing nothing are especially profound and relevant,” Melrose replied as he watched Richard start to crack. He delighted in it, in fact, as he watched laugh lines deepen around eyes that were too often solemn; delighted in the rare laughter that spilled from his lips. “You should do that more.”

A spark of laughter still lighting his eyes, Richard said, “Maybe you can help me with that.”

“Maybe I can.” Melrose slipped a hand around the back of Richard’s neck in a lazy, comfortable caress, “Want to fall in love for the last time?” he asked and watched Richard absorb that, saw his smile warm with the idea of it.

“I’d…” Richard’s smile wobbled a bit, feeling too much, “Yes, I’d really like to do that with you.”

This time, when Melrose initiated the kiss, it really was the kind they wrote sonnets about.


End file.
